Widower's LamentA Story by Carly Ithilhin
I've been advised by a friend to try writing from another's point of view. So, I'm doing it. Not my emotions.
It's a funny thing, our memory. How, after reflecting on traumatic events, we begin to notice that the important details have completely slipped our mind, and that things of little consequence stand out in excruciating detail. And such was the case for Adrian, as the unstoppable tide of images of that fateful night washed over him. The details of her face, more breathtaking than that of any wayward Greek goddess, assaulted him. He supposed they would never leave him, and he honestly didn't ever want to forget a single freckle on the face of his late lover. The flickering of a candle reflected in one one of the uncountable tears streaming down his cheeks, ruddy from his constant lamenting, and his hands, so large and callous, roughly cradling his face, reminded him of those golden locks of silk he so loved to run his hands through. Oh, how he longed to take her in his arms and hold her, to smell her unique scent, that of lilacs and damp earth after saturated by the rain, and bury his face in her tresses, free from the long, tight braid she usually wore.
And with the thought of her hairstyle, came the insufferable image of her glancing behind at him, with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and those adoring, cerulean eyes that could push him into insanity. Her stark yellow hair stood out among the blatant, delicate white lace of her gown. Adrian couldn't suppress the his scream, as reality harshly reminded him that she was gone. Dead. A rotting corpse, crawling with worms and other creatures men find disgusting, wasting away to dust and bone in a coffin not worthy of her. Nothing was worthy of her.
As he tore at his hair, not even wincing as a chocolate curl or two floated gently down onto his faded black trousers, he happened to catch his visage in the polished brass he kept on his desk, as a memoir of her, as she used to gaze in it while she brushed the tangles from her waves of gold, and noticed the little rivers of crimson beginning to pour down from his temple, getting in his eyes. Just like they had from Gabrielle's. And he was inevitably pulled back into that cold, horrible night.
Water and dirt sprayed those around him as he sprinted, like Pheidippides through the muddy streets of the run-down village. The crotch of his leather breeches chaffed roughly against his left thigh, probably leaving a rash. But that didn't matter... None of that mattered. He had to reach her before they...
The alarming, high-pitched shriek of a child rang out in the darkness, informing him that he had arrived too late. The blinding glare of torches stood out in the ebony, and he could almost make out the grey forms of random townsfolk. They were standing in a circle, obviously staring down at something on the ground, some in horror, some grim, and others stoic and unreadable.
They turned to him, their guilty, ominous eyes revealing to him what words could not. They made way for him, all watching him. And there she was...
The pink of her dress was splotched with brown and the red of her blood. Her pale, luminous skin was littered with ugly purple bruises. And her hair, her lovely, golden mass was tangled and flat in the filth that surrounded her. Adrian was barely aware of the low wail emitting from my throat, or that he had dropped to my knees, lifeblood and the waste of humans and beasts be damned. My angel, my valiant beloved, lay dead before me, already stiffening with death. The mourner scarcely could recall the cold fingers that pried him away, and lead him to his house. She was dead, dead... All because his dauntless consort dared to stand up for what she believed to be right.
They all thought him weak because of it. How the men at the tavern had mocked him, saying he couldn't keep a mere woman under control. He could only smile politely, knowing that they wouldn't understand anything about her, him, or them.
But... Then he remembered. There was no "her" anymore. There was no "them". There wasn't even really a "him" anymore...
Hollow. That's what he was. Without her he was hollow/
© 2012 Carly Ithilhin
Added on January 24, 2012
Last Updated on January 24, 2012
AboutGreetings, fellow writers. My name is Carly, obviously. I'm fourteen years old, but does that really matter? I'm most likely more talented than you're expecting. I focus mainly on fantasy and psychol.. more..